


Sacrifice

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst., Drama, Plot - Disturbing/frightening/unsettling, Slash (A/L) Dark theme, War of the Ring, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2008-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-22 07:01:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3719537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas pays a penalty for his hasty words.<br/>This is a short two part story - first chapter is from Legolas's POV, second chapter is from Aragorn's POV.<br/><br/>Warnings: Slash (A/L) Dark theme, angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Legolas squirmed as the Ranger's hand snaked into the waistband of his tight leggings. 

He should have run. He could have, but now it was too late to flee. Now he was lost. 

The elf groaned softly; he was hardly able to draw breath as that skilful and knowing hand moved slowly and deliberately lower. Calloused fingers drew down his garments to reveal the pale flesh beneath and then he felt just the barest of touches as the palm rested delicately upon his quivering skin.

He should have run.

Heat, smarting, burning, took his breath away - he couldn't think, couldn't speak. All he could register was the fierce pain of the relentless strokes that left tracks of fire in his flesh. 

He wished it would stop, but he knew the end would not come yet. Not until he surrendered completely. His hands clutched at the bark of the tree trunk that supported them and he panted, open-mouthed, trying to cope with the stinging waves of pain as the Ranger tore into him. 

The Ranger was angry, of that he was in no doubt; but he was grateful that the man had taken time to cool his frayed temper before leading him to this secluded glade to exact his penalty. 

He was relieved that none of the others would hear his cries, though for now he swallowed them resolutely. It would not do to capitulate too soon; the Ranger would know if his surrender was premature or was not absolute.

He needed this, he knew, they both did, this catharsis, this release. The weight of responsibility weighed heavily on the Ranger and he had to maintain control, over others and over himself. Boromir had voiced challenges that even now undermined his decisions and brought to the surface all manner of self-doubts. Splits that had started to appear in the Fellowship would widen, and the quest would fail; to the ruin of all. 

For all his skill and prowess as a warrior and a leader, the Ranger had little faith in his heritage, his race, his destiny. He needed to exercise authority, he needed to have others acknowledge it. He needed this, even though he dare not admit it.

Legolas would have wept, had he had the breath to do so. Regret weighed heavy on his heart. He knew he should have held his tongue, not rushed to the Ranger's defence...he had been warned of this before. So quick to support and defend, his angry intervention had simply invited further dissention and derision from others who would challenge his friend's authority. 

He should have had the wisdom to remain silent. 

And now, he suffered the consequences of his earnest but ill-judged words. The penalty was severe, but calm and order would be restored, the Ranger would be back in control, the wielder of power and authority reaffirmed, his hand steady and sure.

The Ranger shifted his hold on him, tilted his body at a steeper angle to give himself better access to that most sensitive spot. As his strokes hit home Legolas knew the end was near. The fierce onslaught was building towards a climax; he clung on for dear life, gasping and begging for an end to his ordeal. 

The Ranger was grunting with the effort of maintaining the blistering pace. The rhythm of his strokes became ragged and sweat dropped from his brow, burning the elf's flesh where it splashed down on him. 

And then, just when he thought he could endure no more, at last it was over. Aragorn was clutching him to his chest, smoothing his hair, quieting his sobs.

The man's own face was damp with bitter tears. Tears of guilt at what he had done...what he had been driven to do.

Despite the pain, Legolas sighed in relief and contentment. This was the best. This is what made it worth all the agony, every burning stroke. This wonderful quiet time of peace and serenity, that incredible lightness of spirit as if his soul had left its body behind so that it could soar, weightless and unburdened. 

Because it could. And the words of grace and absolution came to his lips so easily now.

"You have brought us this far, and you have not led us astray. I was wrong to speak as I did. Forgive me?"

"Ú-moe edaved, Legolas"

The blessing of sacrifice.

***********************************************************************************


	2. Restoration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas pays a penalty for his hasty words.

He bends to the pressure of my hands, submissive and compliant, though I feel the tension throb within him. His fingers reach out and splay across the rough bark of the tree trunk and he braces himself, waiting. His hair falls down either side of his face like a curtain; it is time.

My own fingers hesitate just for a moment, as if I might change my mind. But I am lost now; I cannot stop this. Deliberately and decisively, I take hold of his clothing and draw it down, laying him bare. He trembles slightly at the touch of my hand against his pale, flawless skin.

He utters not a sound as I start exacting my price upon his flesh. From the outset he is hurting, his breath comes short, rasping through his teeth or rushing from his panting mouth. I dare not look at his face; I keep my eyes fixed on the flesh before me as my strokes hit home, again and again.

He will not resist or flee, nor turn and fight me, for he submits willingly, for my sake. I marvel at his strength and detest my own weakness. 

Too long have I sought the solitary life of a Ranger, and as I try to lead this quest Boromir tests me daily. He challenges my decisions, trying to steer me away from the road I know we must follow. Now Gimli too has started to argue, and the others hear only gainsay and dissent. 

I struggle to keep control; not least on my temper, for on this fragile illusion all power depends. To this end I cannot allow anyone to break rank. So when the elf spoke unguardedly, throwing down the gauntlet to Boromir, I had to act. Discipline, control and order must be preserved here, whatever the personal cost. 

The others heard me call him away; they watched him meekly follow me from the camp, and they knew he was to pay a penalty for his unruly tongue. They know him as a warrior, a prince of elves; they understand that if I can demand and receive respect and obedience from him, then it must be my due from them also.

Something which I too often need to remind myself. The elf knows this, even though he does not speak of it. And so he follows me to this shady glade, to this dark place in my heart, to whatever end.

I want this to be over quickly; I yearn to bestow that small mercy. I increase the rate of my strokes and I tilt his body downwards. He grunts and sobs in pain. Now we are both breathing hard and sweat stings my eyes. Only a man can think brutality is a path to mercy. 

Only a man. My thoughts mock me.

At last it is over; I am spent. He leans against me, gasping in relief and I crush him to my chest, holding him tightly as my blood cools. He is completely undone by what he has endured at my hands. Tears of remorse course down his face as I comfort him. He calms slowly and then sighs as I hold him close, stroking his hair, swallowing my own bitter tears. 

_Ai Elbereth!_ How can I do this to one so fair, so gentle and good? 

Eventually he stirs, speaks reverently the words of atonement, and asks for my forgiveness. I tell him he has done nothing for me to pardon. Guilt overwhelms me, and tears well up in me once more. 

It is I that should seek _his_ forgiveness. And yet I know although unspoken, he gives it freely. I hug him again and this time he comforts me.

He knows that I needed to do this, and somehow that makes it right; makes this act both sacred and profane. He knows me so well, this elf, this warrior, this friend. It makes me ashamed; I am humbled by what he bears for my sake.

He knows the true nature of sacrifice.

He walks a lonely road, to assuage the fears and weakness of a driven mortal. A being of light, bound to a heart of darkness, imprisoned from the daylight's gold.

In my mind's eye I saw all too clearly the bliss of dappled woods and sunlit ways he has forsaken; for us, for this Fellowship, and for me.

And I wept for him.

END


End file.
